


Private Life

by ProtoNeoRomantic



Series: Lives in Common [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: 1990s, Casual Sex, Drunk Driving, Drunk as a dog Wesley, Drunkenness, Gay Bar, Giles blends into his enviroment, Loneliness, M/M, Mentions of HIV/AIDS, One Night Stands, Period-Typical Homophobia, Personal Ads, Relative Drunkenness, Secret lives, Sexuality, Summer of Giles 2017, Sunnydale PD, Tipsy Giles, Vampires, Watchers, Welsey stands out, or maybe not, traffic stops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-02 05:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11503026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoNeoRomantic/pseuds/ProtoNeoRomantic
Summary: If there is one thing Rupert Giles has learned in two and a half years on the Hellmouth it is that no one there is ever going to have a happy, normal relationship.  So, with the help of the personals section of the Sunnydale Harold he sets out to find just enough love or something like it to get by without one.





	1. The Importance of Being Edmund

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lisianpeia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisianpeia/gifts).



There was only one gay bar in Sunnydale. And it mattered that it was a 'gay' bar, because it was in Sunnydale. Not Los Angeles and certainly not London. It was on Wilkins Street, nearer the University than down town, and was cleverly named “That Place on Wilkins Street”; which, Giles was forced to admit, was probably what the locals would have called it anyway. In hushed tones, no doubt, he thought with a wry chuckled.

Despite thinking of themselves as the Capital of the Universe, Americans were still so very provincial in there own way. Especially in small towns. Especially in an insular small town like Sunnydale, which was, culturally speaking, more like some map dot in the vast American interior than the typical West coast bedroom towns where so much of the urban workforce roosted for the night.

People who lived in Sunnydale _lived_ in Sunnydale. Most of them for generations. Newcomers didn't usually last long, one way or another. You had to have a reason to stay in this town, something that made it worth the risk, whether that was a sacred duty, an evil mission, or just a true patriot's reluctance to walk away from the one place on earth that has always been home for as long as anyone can remember.

Rupert sighed. Strictly speaking, he supposed he didn't have any such reason anymore. Not since the Council had relieved him of his duties. But he'd be damned if he was going anywhere either. Right or Wrong, officially or unofficially, there was Buffy. And Buffy was reason enough to stay. At least until he could be sure that the Council had managed to replace him with someone who actually could and would do the job. Someone whom Buffy, and Faith, could trust and respect. Someone who as not a power-mad villain like Gwendolyn Post.

And so here he was, on another Friday night. In answer to another ad in the Sunnydale Harold, meeting a stranger for 'a drink and hopefully...' '…' was all the personal life he had time for these days. All he had the emotional energy for, honestly. And though he had no strong sexual preference one way or the other, men tended to be a little more understanding of his desire to keep his '…' discrete and casual than did women.

The people who met at That Place already knew that there were no white picket fences or fat grandchildren in their futures, at least not with each other. There was a sort of freedom in that. As the old Bob Dylan song said, “When you got nothin' you got nothin' to lose.” This was a place where desperate men took what they could get and were happy to have it. The perfect place for a man who was already committed beyond all hope of disentanglement (to a woman in whom he had no sexual interest) to meet a lover with low expectations.

Rupert sighed again and turned up the collar of his leather jacket as if to ward off such maudlin thoughts and walked through the double doors into the dark, smoky barroom. Nobody wanted to drink with a sad-sack, let alone '…' And after the hellish fortnight he'd lived through since the last time, Giles needed to '…' and then some. To be close to another human being. To be held. To be desired. To lose himself in lust and physical pleasure, if only for one evening. Especially here at the mouth of hell, where one evening was almost more that he could spare. Almost more than anyone could count on having left.

Sometimes he dared to hope he might meet someone who was up for the very occasional repeat engagement. Never more than that. He had learned his lesson. His life was far too dangerous to drag another innocent soul into. His spending the odd evening '...ing' with someone would put them in enough danger as it was.

Be all that as it may, here he was. And it would all be just a tedious waste of time if he didn't get to enjoying himself, which meant finding his intended companion before the fellow found someone else to '…' with. Slowly, intentionally, Rupert scanned the small crowd, most of whom he knew well enough by sight if not by name, including several that he'd already been with, come to that.

These former partners didn't stare him down hatefully or avert their eyes the way a woman would if an old fling had dared to show his face around her favorite watering hole after casual sex had predictably led to nothing more. They smiled and nodded as he passed. Easy come easy go was no sin here, nothing either party had to pretend to be embarrassed about.

It wouldn't be any of them he was here to meet tonight. His companion was new in town and, given that he hadn't even dared to give his first name in response to Rupert's letter, probably new to the M4M scene altogether. Although, Giles had given his own name as, 'Edmund or Ed for short'. Which was true but not very. Everyone at That Place called him by his middle name. Because, he thought, amused at himself, a man living a triple life can never be too careful.

At any rate, the only person in the room who registered as new was a boy no more than eighteen, if that. The gentleman he was to meet was supposed to be twenty-seven, though it would hardly be the first time someone had lied in a personal ad. Rupert fervently hoped that wasn't the case. He needed a man, not a boy, technically legal or not.

But as he completed a second scan of the room without lighting on any likelier suspects, his mind was already turning to whether or not it might be safe to return again to an old well. Slim Jim was leaning against the wall next to the jukebox talking to another regular. He was married and had children still in school. So the chance that he'd view an repeat encounter as an invitation to demand more was virtually nil.

“Ummmm..... excuse me,” the boy said, sure enough, locking eyes with Giles and walking in his direction. Rupert tried not to show his disappointment, he'd have to let the boy down gently, that was all. He'd already put enough innocent kids in harms way to last a lifetime. But that didn't matter now. Evidently, he'd got it all wrong. The boy was already moving past him, gently push-gesturing him out of the way.

Rupert turned to see a tall, thin, sallow, grim-faced individual nodding in acknowledgment as the boy walk over to join him at the table by the window. Rupert's pulse quickened. He knew that one by sight and by a name of sorts. Regulars called him the Grim Reaper, or Grim for short. He didn't come in here much, but when he did, his drinking companions tended to disappear.

Rupert's hand instinctively went for the cross in his jacket pocket, but he didn't pull it out. Not yet. There was, usually, more than one way to deal with a vampire, especially in mixed company as it were. There was not more than one That Place, and no night life establishment in Sunnydale could stay open very long without the protection of at least one vampire. Even two Slayers could not be everywhere at once.

In short, Rupert would do himself no favors by being seen to interfere with the delicate balance of business and politics that kept these double doors open. Any way you looked at it, this was not a bridge he could afford to burn. But this child was exactly that. And he had no notion how deep the water was that he'd decided to take a swim in, nor what dangers lurked in those depths.

Rupert stood there a moment, watching, until Grim finally looked up at him. “You want somethin'” the vampire demanded, hostile but guarded. He knew a thing or two about bridges it didn't pay to burn himself.

“Hunting is one thing,” Giles replied coolly, “But stealing downy chicks from the nest is a bit unsporting, don't you think?”

“Hey!” the kid shouted, jumping to his feet, offended. “You can't talk about me like that! You're not my father!”

Giles smiled wanly, “Yes, well. Thank God for small favors,” he said, turning away from the dumbstruck youngster and back towards Grim. Then he let his smile light up his face as if noticing something for the first time, “Well, but you _are_ looking better though, aren't you! Still a bit pale, but I'm sure little sun will take care of that now you're back on your feet.” Then, leaning in close, speaking too low for anyone not at the table to hear he added, “What have they got you on this time? Still just the AZT, or one of those new combination therapies?”

The vampire gripped the table, nails biting into the wood with an audible crunching sound. For a moment he was too angry to speak. Instead he made a menacing sound between a grunt and a growl. Meanwhile, his silence was taken as an admission, just as Giles had gambled that it would be. With vampires, just as with men, it helped to know your individual adversary.

The boy's eyes widened. “I... uh... I just remembered... something,” he mumbled, getting to his feet and hurrying for the door. Giles couldn't help another slight, sad smile. Children really are so easily shocked, so easily frightened, he thought. Especially by the bogeymen their parents use to get them to behave. And, therefore, easily manipulated.

Poor dear little wallflower. It really was a shame. He'd probably used up a years worth of courage coming in here tonight. Now he was just another victim of the sexual counter-revolution of the last decade and a half. Which was still better than being sucked dry by The Grim Reaper. Which... speaking of...

“You're going to pay for that, Watcher.” Grim hissed venomously. At least he was polite enough to keep his voice low. 'Ed's' secret identity was not the best kept secret in Sunnydale, but it was not general knowledge either. It might be good for a little bit of leverage against someone, at some point, and so Grim was in no hurry to share what he knew. Grim was no orator, but he was no fool either. And it was not in his nature to willingly share anything with anyone.

“Calm yourself,” Rupert ordered, sharply but quietly. “I don't know why you insist on drinking here anyway. You know I'm not going to stand idly by and—.”

Grim looked like he was thinking up a few choice words for the Watcher, but before he could spit them out, they were interrupted. Erm, excuse me, erm, Gentlemen?” said a young Englishman nearly as tall as Giles, hesitantly tapping on his shoulder. Giles blink in surprise a moment, then sighed at his own predictable karma. This would be him, of course.

He was the only man in the place who looked like he'd never been inside this bar or anyplace like it. Who _sounded_ like it was beneath his dignity to be here now. All around them was a sea of well worn denim, cotton and leather. 'Ed' was wearing his best vintage Floyd with black jeans and a leather jacket. This berk had on a pair of stiffly pleated navy trousers and a white Oxford shirt with exactly one button undone. Clearly dressed down for the express purpose of slumming.

Still, Giles thought hopefully, he supposed there was a _slight_ chance that this was not _his_ 'New in Town', that another might be about to walk in, just as this one had following his first wrong assumption. Which was when the prat wrinkled his nose diffidently and stooped at ask the likes of them, “Has either of you two, erm 'gentlemen' seen a rather tall Englishman, with light brown hair and Green eyes, answers to the name of Edmund?”

 


	2. Aggravation with the Proper Stranger

“I say!” the Proper Gentleman demanded, going red in the face, looking very near to stamping his foot, “What exactly is so terribly funny?”

Rupert had only smiled ironically, and that at himself. But Grim was doubled over with laughter, the sight of which was enough to draw the attention of every man in the bar. They all gaped, either silently or speaking only in whispers. To a man they were mystified and/or horrified by this unprecedented event. Waiting tensely to see what would happen next.

Soon enough, the vampire composed himself. The fact that he didn't necessarily need to breathe helped with that, Giles supposed. As did the fact that the Proper Gentleman's yowling was clearly starting to get on Grim's nerves. Still, the vampire was jovial enough when he turned to Giles and asked, “What do you think, Ed, is _this one_ old enough, or do you want me to throw him back too.”

The young man's eyes widened in shock just as his mouth narrowed in disgust. Given the limited options; that was not, as it should have been, enough to end the evening right then and there. “Edmund,” Giles introduced himself glibly, extending his hand. “At your service. And don't worry about this lout. I assure you he's no friend of mine.”

The younger man's mouth worked up and down for a couple of minutes before he could quite think of a response. “This is the part where you tell him your name,” Grim explained, still unwontedly amused. Another half a minute passed and still nothing happened. Giles could see all hope of '…' slipping away. No doubt that tickled the vampire no end, considering his own evening had just been ruined or at least severely delayed at the Watcher's hand.

Regardless, it was no good just standing about. Something had to be done. “Perhaps we'll work our way up to introductions,” Rupert suggested brashly, with what he hoped was a soft, indulgent, and not at all mocking little chuckle, taking his hand back. “Can I buy you a drink?”

The man actually looked him in the eyes then, and seemed to thaw out a little, liking what he saw. Rupert smiled a little more, as much from relief as anything. He knew his eyes were his best feature. He'd been told that they had a warm, endearing quality and something of an impish twinkle.

Giles didn't know about all that; but Proper Gentleman (as he had come to think of his companion for lack of any better name) smiled, nodded, and followed him to the bar. Grim went back to the beer he'd been nursing all evening, and the whole bar breathed a sigh of relief.

As the two men approached the bar, PG's smile faded and he began to look concerned again. Clearly, even he could see at a glance that there was no use asking for the wine list. The most sophisticated thing behind the bar was a glass refrigerator filled with bottled cocktails and some of the world's cheapest imported beers.

“Two large whiskeys, neat,” 'Ed' told Terrance, the bartender, saving his drinking companion from the grip of dire uncertainty.

“I'm sorry,” PG offered (sounding far more plaintive than sorry) once they had their drinks and had found a table. “I suppose I had conceived the notion that we were to meet someplace rather more... respectable.”

Giles couldn't help raising an eyebrow and giving the fellow a slightly corrective look. “If this were a respectable place,” he pointed out, “they wouldn't want the likes of us hanging around. Not that they'd ever come out and say so. It is nearly the twenty-first century, after all. It's become terribly impolite to say 'No Queers Allowed' in quite so many words, you know.”

PG wrinkled his nose at the use of the slur. Then he blushed scarlet. Probably as embarrassed at being disgusted by a term that accurately described him as he was to be drinking with a man who used such indelicate language. Of course, he only made mention of indelicacy, and that... well... delicately. “Really, Edmund,” he fussed, “must you?” sounding oh so very much like a Victorian maiden aunt. In short, the antithesis of what Giles had come here to find.

Giles tossed back the rest of his tall, stiff drink; which he had already more than half finished. “Good God, man!” he declared in his most proper public school diction. “Try and relax before you give yourself a coronary. This is all meant to be a lark, you know, not an etiquette lesson.”

“Don't you think I know that?” PG snapped, his voice at once hushed and defensive. “Look,” he added, only a bit softer, in both senses, “can't we just get out of here? It's perfectly obvious that we're attracted to one another; and one glance around this room is enough to know that we are, neither of us, in a position to be too particular.”

Rupert could have told him to speak for himself, that he had plenty of suitable men to choose from in this town and even in this room. But besides being less than entirely true, that wasn't the kind of answer that would lead to having a proper shag for the first time in weeks. And he could see in this stranger's eyes (this beautiful stranger's softly longing eyes) that his concern in the matter was much the same.

 _Discretion can be the better part of valor, even with regard to one's indiscretions._ Giles remembered the admonition but no longer the name or face of the specific Watcher who had so admonished him once, long ago, a short while before his unscheduled sabbatical in London. That one isolated memory made him smile in spite of the truly ugly memories lying on either side of it. He'd been a far bigger prat in those days than PG could possibly be.

Which meant, of course, that the fellow was probably guilty of nothing more than being young and self-consciously situated at just the very margins of the British upper class. And when once they had stopped talking at one another, Rupert had to admit, there was a sort of chemical energy between them. A subtle spark that could likely be fanned into an inferno with just a bit less effort, a bit less pressure. Perhaps a bit of privacy would help with that.

“Alright,” Giles concluded with a decisive nod in the other man's direction. “Drink up then.” PG nodded gratefully and commenced to do exactly that. “I suppose you won't have a car yet, having just landed, what Monday or Tuesday?”

“Yesterday,” PG admitted, sounding equal parts self-satisfied and sheepish, like a child who is pleased with his own clever misbehavior. “I actually called ahead to have the advert placed before I left London.”

“Why the devil would you do that?” Rupert asked bluntly before he had time to think better of it. That was the downside of drinking, of course. It tended to loosen up one's tongue along with everything else.

PG looked perturbed, offended really, making Giles feel equal parts foolish and annoyed. “Drink up,” he repeated, hoping to relieve his companion of the need to explain himself further. “Let's get out of here.”

PG downed the rest of his drink, still looking less than pleased. “I still haven't a car,” he pointed out, sounding a bit snippy.

“Well, fortunately, I have,” Giles explained, pretending not to notice the other man's tone, “which is what I was working up to saying even if I did take us the long way round.”

“Yes, rather,” PG replied stiffly. It probably wasn't supposed to sound quite as much like an admonishment as it did. No one could possibly be that big a prat, unless it was a very young Rupert Giles.

“Well, at any rate,” Giles continued trying to steer the conversation towards the nearest exit, tossing a twenty down on the bar to pay for the cheap blended whiskey that passed for top shelf in That Place. “We can go back to your hotel and... well... get better acquainted.”

PG looked worried again. Uncertain. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. How was it that someone who couldn't wait until he touched ground to start looking for his next tryst could be so ridiculously indecisive about taking someone back to his hotel?

“You have got a room haven't you?” Rupert asked, somewhere between concern and incredulity. “You didn't sleep in the airport, I suppose?”

“No, no, of course not!” PG declared, sounding very nettled in deed, raising his voice just a bit. “And you needn't be so snippy with me!” he snapped, tiresomely projecting his own faults onto his companion. “We are both here for the same thing, after all; at least I thought we were; and it isn't to make snide remarks!”

“Snide remarks!” Giles half shouted, incredulity winning out for the moment. “Look, you're the one who, who who—!” And he most certainly had, even if Giles was too vexed to spit it out.

“For God's sake,” PG hissed, quietly but dramatically, “people are staring.” Which was not an entirely fair statement. Most of the men around them hadn't noticed them at all, let alone noticed that they were to any degree at odds. But the Grim Reaper certainly had.

He had swiveled in their direction and was preparing to get to his feet. And he was eyeing Rupert's companion like the last half-decent thing in the refrigerator after one has decided that he feels just a bit peckish after all. At this, Rupert's concern won out over his annoyance. He tried once again to steer the younger man towards the exit. But PG shrugged Rupert's hand off his shoulder, turned, and stood rooted to the spot.

For a moment, he and Grim locked eyes. The man shuttered with what looked from his expression to be equal parts fear and disbelief, but also, oddly enough, recognition. As though he knew Grim well enough to know exactly why he should fear him. As though he were no stranger after all but rather a dreaded enemy encountered in an unexpected place.

Of course, there was no way on Earth the poor chap could know how right he really was. And no chance whatsoever of Rupert abandoning him to such a fate, no matter how little he was coming to like the idea of PG's companionship for the rest of the evening. There was nothing for it but to turn and face the vampire. To remind him whose preserve he was considering poaching in. And of what he stood to lose by going head to head with the Watcher, especially if he were to prevail.

Grim cast Giles a hateful look and turned towards the men's room, as if that had been his intention all along. “We'll go back to my place,” Giles offered, “Let's just go before...” But he was at a loss how to end that sentence without telling this git (to whom he found himself hobbled) things that he was not prepared to know.

Instinctively sensing that an individual was bad news was one thing; accepting that one was standing face to face with an undead monster and therefore in mortal danger was another matter entirely. One Giles felt sure PG was in no wise prepared to face. Which was why he cursed under his breath so fluently when the fool announced that he was going to visit the men's room and then take a cab back to the apartment his employer had rented him in advance, thank you very much.

 


	3. Who's Watching Whom?

Giles moved quickly, but PG was faster and nearer the door. He must have been in quite a hurry to relieve himself at that. It was almost as though he were _trying_ to end up trapped in that tiny room with the Grim Reaper. As a matter of fact, by the time Rupert reached the door and tried to turn the knob, it was already locked, though his erstwhile companion had only just disappeared inside.

A moment later, as Giles was still rattling the knob and cursing, a short contralto scream of alarm and surprise could be heard throughout the bar. Of one accord, the patrons began to swiftly gather their possessions and head for the exits. Grim had never done this on the premises before, but there was not a man in the place that did not know what he was doing. And none of them wanted to still be here when the body was found.

“The key!” Giles shouted at Terrance, who stood irresolutely in the middle of the room watching everyone else leave. The bartender turned and gave the Watcher the most pitiful look of fear and guilty awareness of unshoulderable responsibility he had ever seen. Terrance was tall and brawny, but probably only twenty-one on paper. His expression was very much that of a lost child, left behind in the dark forest as the rest of the tribe moved on.

“You don't have to go down with the ship!” Giles declared, too exasperated to connect the dots between his thoughts and his words for the young man, “Just give me the damned keys and get the hell out of here!”

“But Gunther left me in charge,” the big, boyish lug argued in a plaintive half whisper, “I don't know—”

“Then call Gunther,” Giles snapped back cutting him off impatiently, stopping himself short of battering the door with his shoulder, knowing damned well which one would give. “In the meantime toss me the bloody keys!”

In the time it took Terrance to process and reluctantly comply with that request, PG screamed again once and cursed several times. There was also a general clatter of metal and glass, of men struggling violently in a very tight space. At least it didn't sound like he was getting his throat ripped out quite yet. As the key was turning in the lock, Giles even heard an exclamation from Grim that sounded very shocked and not at all pleased.

It seemed then, that at least PG was getting his licks in, holding his own for the moment. Just the same, Giles charged through the door the second it was opened, a large wooden cross held high before him, one end of which was sharpened into a stake. Thank God he had worn a jacket in spite of the warm weather. One never knew when the ability to carry a concealed weapon would come in handy.

Giles had thought he was prepared for literally anything he might see when the men's room door opened, but he was wrong. “Ah!” PG screamed again at the sight of his would-be date brandishing such a bizarre and lethal looking piece of hardware in his general direction. Hurriedly, almost guiltily, Giles stashed the weapon back under his coat, and tried to feel relieved. But all he really felt was confused and a tiny bit resentful.

Here before him stood the man he's barged in to rescue from certain death, possibly at the cost of his own life and likely at the cost of being banished from That Place forever. But the moment of his intended heroism proved anticlimactic. PG was pale, trembling, clinging to the sink with both hands. His hair was mussed and his shirt ripped in three or four places, in at least one of which the skin beneath had been torn, drawing blood. In short, he was shaken, disheveled, slightly injured, and quite alone.

“Where did he go?” Terrance asked, peeping cautiously around Giles as soon as he saw the older man relax his posture and put his weapon away. PG tried to look confused, but he was clearly still too terrified, too full of adrenaline to exercise that type of control over himself convincingly.

“Well?” Giles prompted when too many seconds had passed without any response.

For a split second, the glance that PG shot him was truly malevolent, then he schooled his features to look plausibly confused again. “I... I er really don't know,” he attempted to stammer in a way that was both obvious and grating to someone who actually suffered from that difficulty in moments of crisis or distress. “He... attacked me? Then... I don't know. We were struggling, and I fell... and...” here he paused dramatically as if suddenly struck by an idea, “Do you suppose he might have gone out of the window?”

“Yes!” Terrance agreed gratefully, nodding like a bobble head. “He must have!”

A part of Giles wanted to agree just as readily. This night had become unpleasant enough without having to go to bed (alone and unsatisfied) wondering who the bloody hell this new-in-town vanquisher of the undead was. Wondering whether he was a threat or a potential ally or both.

Suddenly, a horrifying thought struck him. This fellow was just Proper Gentleman enough to be a newly minted Watcher. If in fact he had managed to kill a seasoned vampire in such a closed space, whilst in the process screaming like a woman and becoming ill with terror; that very nearly proved the hypothesis. If, in fact, it transpired that this blighter was here to replace him, to speak for the Council, to attempt to control his access to Buffy? No, it was unthinkable.

And so, with the uneasiness of one unwillingly looking a gift horse in the mouth, Giles scanned all along the floor and walls and sinks and surfaces. Looking for dust, for ashes. There was none to be seen. And the window was, in point of fact, open. There was even a large trashcan upended beneath it, as if it had been used for a step ladder.

“Well,” Giles babbled nervously while he tried to decide what had just happened here and how he felt about it, “It's been an interesting evening if nothing else.” PG gave him a _Look_ , to which he was clearly fully entitled. “Sorry,” Giles mumbled. And he was. What a daft, thoughtless thing to say. And being too flummoxed to actually think was hardly an excuse. “I can still give you a ride home if you like,” he offered by way of further apology.

PG pursed his lips and said nothing. Instead he shouldered past Giles and went to sit down on a stool at the bar. “Scotch Whiskey” he ordered, clearly addressing Terrance now, easily making himself heard across the quite empty bar. “Single malt if you have it, a decent blend if not.” Terrance nodded and hurried back to his place behind the bar, drawing a very put-upon sigh from PG as he reached for the very same bottle of Old Smuggler he had poured their drinks from earlier when Giles had specified merely 'whiskey'. None-the-less, the man gratefully gulped down his drink and immediately called for another.

Giles stood there looking foolish, wondering if he should leave. But he had invited the man here and so felt, in a very real sense, responsible for his safety. It was starting to get a bit late, approaching the hour when there would be almost no humans in the streets.

And at the rate he was drinking, PG was likely to be extremely impaired by the time he stumbled out into the street to meet his taxi. Drunk enough to tell the driver (who, odds on, would be a vampire, or something else capable of repeatedly surviving Sunnydale's very real graveyard shift) that he was new to America and not likely to be missed by a single soul on the whole continent.

“I'll have the same,” Giles said, making up his mind and taking his seat next to his clearly no longer a date. PG shot him a withering look, but said nothing as Giles ignored him and proceeded to drink.

Eventually, PG's tongue loosened up a little, and then a lot. By the time he had finished his, altogether, seventh shot; PG was sloppy drunk and rattling on about his wife and children back in London. How he missed them and how he was glad to be free of them. He didn't seem to notice that their names, ages, and numbers tended to vary from sentence to sentence. Just as if he'd made them up entirely.

Evidently, this was all part of his needless and inept attempt to explain his having taken out the fateful advert in advance. But the poor man was entirely too drunk to realize that his account of himself was by no means plausible and in any case, no one cared. This though he was only two drinks ahead of his companion.

That fit. As far as Giles was concerned, PG seemed to be a light weight in every possible way. Except for his mysterious ability to make vampires disappear. He had to have staked Grim, Giles would decide in one moment only to remember in the next that that was impossible. There had been no ashes. And besides, just look at him.

This man couldn't have killed anything feistier than a bottle of cheap Scotch to save his soul. It seemed ridiculous to Giles now (in the more relaxed and thoughtful state that came with having just a few drinks) that he had even for a moment imagined this fellow to be Watcher. There was supposed to be a much greater emphasis on field work in the training regimen these days. And this one hardly seemed the type to get his hands dirty.

“One for the road, my good man!” PG announced jovially, after he was (evidently) satisfied that he had settled the question of his domestic situation. It was only then that Giles remembered that he had stayed with the express intention of escorting his companion safely home. But he was still alright to drive; he decided, as long as he stopped now. His reflexes and thought processes might be a tiny bit slower than usual, but that would hardly matter with the streets all but deserted.

“Mineral water for me, thanks, Terrance,” he said, sounding very sober if he did say so himself.

 


	4. Bad Calculations! Bad!

“Hmmm,” PG mumbled, snuggling and rubbing against Giles, almost like a cat, as he held him on his feet and helped him to the car. “You really are lovely, you know. You muss work out loads to geh, get muscle like 'at on sush a lean frame.” This though he had called Rupert a 'dedickerlus git' and taken a swing at him not ten minutes earlier.

Giles rolled his eyes. The time for that kind of talk was two hours, three drinks and far too many insults ago. At this point, he was able to take no pleasure in the fact that the man so closely pressed against him, limbs slightly tangled with his (So much so that they nearly tripped twice between the bar and the car) was clearly very well built himself.

The fact that such a lovely body (and the face to match) had been wasted on this person was irritating. So was the fact that tonight marked the Watcher's 50th consecutive day without having sex with anyone but himself. And at this point he was in no mood even for a solo performance.

The evening was a total bust. All that was left to do now was to get this fool safely home, crawl into bed, and hold tight to the fact that tomorrow was another day. But even that, as it turned out, was too optimistic a view of the situation.

Rupert heard the siren before he saw the car. For a tenth of a second he was startled, not quite comprehending the cause of the alarming noise. Then the blue lights began to flash, illuminating the situation in horrific detail.

The law didn't take into account one's tolerance for alcohol and actual ability to drive. It was all a matter of percentages. And if the local District Court was on it's toes enough to find out about the incident in Bath three or four years ago, one plus one might equal deportation and/or the loss of his current employment and his teaching license. Any of which would make it damn near impossible for him to keep working with Buffy until her new Watcher arrived and got up to speed. If he ever did.

Despite a sudden impulse to flee, Rupert had no choice but to stop. One didn't play around with American police officers, any more than with vampires. Because they could be just as deadly. Especially if they felt you might be the wrong sort of person.

Giles pulled over to the curb and looked into his side mirror to see a tallish and very thin officer approaching him. No name sprung to mind but he recognized the man as one of the officers who had formed the almost comically literal posse that had come to the school to question him about the death of Philip Henry. He'd also been hanging around the station when Rupert had been interviewed regarding Jenny's death, among other things.

As for the issue of wrong sorts of people, he and his partner had had some unprintable things to say bout their Black, female superior as they'd driven him to the morgue to view Philip's body. And neither had made any secret of the fact that, as far as they were concerned, Rupert Giles remained a viable suspect in several open cases.

Add that to the fact that he hadn't gotten even one full block from That Place before being stopped... and the fact that he was fairly certain he hadn't given them any real excuse in the short distance he'd driven? It all seemed in a nebulous way to add up to something sinister.

Maybe all of the above could be chalked up to coincidence. Or maybe the local police enjoyed supplementing the city's revenue from some pockets more than others. Either way, Giles waited until the officer stood at his window and asked before reaching into the glove box to get his registration and proof of insurance, making sure the other man could see exactly what he was doing.

“Now I'm going for my wallet,” he explained in a careful, even tone before retrieving his drivers license.

“'Sno charge,” PG offered generously, laughing quietly to himself. He'd been muttering and laughing the whole time really, but that was the first thing he'd said loudly and coherently enough to imply that he as aware of where he was and that there were other people present.

The cop rolled his eyes, then gave Giles an extraordinarily inpatient look, suggesting that he was just as offended by Giles making such a production of not making any sudden movements as he was by PG's babbling. Regardless, Rupert still didn't make any sudden moves. It was better to be safe than sorry.

The officer (Gary Stern, according the the metallic name tag pinned to the front of his uniform) barely glanced at his driver's license before demanding, “Rupert Giles, please exit the vehicle.” Giles blinked at him. Exit the vehicle. It took him a moment to understand. Stern was skipping steps. He hadn't even asked 'do you know why I stopped you' yet.

“Ah, yes, of course,” Giles muttered automatically as he tried to figure out exactly how he was meant to open his door with this fool still leaning on it. He needn't have worried. As soon as he popped the latch, Stern pulled the door open and made as if to pull him bodily from the vehicle. “I'm getting out,” Giles informed him, trying not to sound impatient. Because he _was_ getting out, as quickly as he could.

“Goo'fa you!” PG declared, his level of intoxication evidently still on the rise as his body continued to metabolize the alcohol he'd drunk. “Don't ge'out mush m'seff, 'san occashun!”

“Stick a sock in it,” Giles snapped back over his shoulder at his companion. PG giggled a great deal more and muttered something mercifully indistinct about sticking something somewhere.

“That's enough out of you,” Stern shouted at one or both of them as Giles finally got his feet under him despite the challenge presented by the officer being so very much in the way.

“Spossa be a lark,” PG complained, sounding near tears, like an overtired child. Stern ignored him and ordered/propelled Giles to the front of the vehicle.

“Have you been drinking tonight, Mr. Giles?” he asked in his practiced, official voice, sounding both calm and, well, in a word, stern. Giles knew better than to remain silent. That was a one way ticket to a place he didn't want to be by way of an oversensitive chemical test that he very much doubted he would pass, even though he was no more than a bit tipsy.

“I've had a couple of drinks, yes,” he said in his warmest, most polite, cooperative-law-abiding-citizen voice. Stern waited silently for his answer to continue. “Certainly nothing to excess,” Giles found himself adding, almost against his volition, knowing all the while having said less would have been better. “And a good thing I was there too, else I don't see how that poor fellow would have made his way home.” Giles capped these remarks with a very fine facsimile of a friendly smile.

Stern gave him an appraising look. Giles dared to hope that he might just play it off. He sounded fine, if he did say so himself, and he was steady on his feet. If the officer hadn't know him from Adam, it might have worked. But if that were the case, he probably wouldn't have been stopped in the first place. Because, damn it all, his driving had been perfectly fine. He knew it had.

As it was, the man put him through a grueling twenty minutes of increasingly bizarre and humiliating exercises, until he finally 'failed' at hopping on one foot by putting his arms out to steady himself. The officer also claimed he'd failed at following a pen light with his eyes (which he hadn't) and been far too slow in counting backwards from one hundred by threes (which he had).

Giles practically had to bite his tongue in two to keep from pointing out that many people were unable to do each of those things quite sober and that there was very little call for hopping on one foot or counting backward by threes while operating a motor vehicle. He managed; however, which he thought was proof enough of sobriety. Evidently, Stern disagreed.

Inevitably, the Device was produced. The one with the ridiculous name. The one that one had to (even more ridiculously) blow into. From the glint in Stern's eyes when he looked at the reading, Giles knew the results were not good. His long, unpleasant evening was about to turn into a very long and even more unpleasant night.


	5. What a Difference a Name Makes

Almost before he knew what was happening, Giles found himself being spun around backwards and slammed against the hood of his own car while his arms were forcibly twisted behind him and shackled together. Stern was talking to his partner, or someone, over his radio; describing a degree of resistance that Giles felt sure he had in no way threatened, accusing him of failing to obey commands that he was fairly certain he had not even heard.

By the time he had been half dragged and half goaded back to the side of the car, Stern's partner (who was evidently called 'Terry') had joined them. “What do we do about sleeping-beauty there?” the shorter cop wanted to know, indicating PG with a jut of his chin. Surely enough, the man was fast asleep. Yes, Giles thought scornfully, he was indeed a light weight in every sense.

Stern shrugged. “Give him a ride home, I guess, as long as he hasn't got any warrants. No law against drunk passengering. What's his name?” he added, addressing Giles now.

“Hmm?” Giles was caught off guard by the question, though he shouldn't have been. He seemed to be a bit slow on the uptake this evening, for some reason.

“Your friend,” Stern repeated. “What's his name?”

“I don't know,” Giles answered matter-of-factly, brow furrowing slightly at the realization of how strange that sounded, under the circumstances.

“What do _you_ call him?” Stern insisted.

“You,” Giles answered, unable to keep an acidic edge from his voice. More incredulous staring. “It seemed to suffice,” Giles added defensively.

This drew a short, brittle laugh from Terry. “Poor Tinkerbell doesn't know what kind of a bullet he dodged tonight, does he, Rupert? You're an equal opportunity son-of-a-bitch, I'll give you that.”

“I b—“ Giles began indignantly before he had sense enough to stop himself. He snapped his mouth shut, but some degree of damage had already been done.

“Just give me an excuse,” Terry taunted Giles maliciously, 'accidentally' banging him against his back fender. Giles sucked it up and held his peace. Lord knew the situation was bad enough already. At this point, keeping his mouth shut could be the difference between getting home by morning and spending the weekend in jail. Or in hospital.

“Where does he live?” Stern asked, when a mild shaking did not immediately rouse PG to the point of being able to answer that question for himself.

“I don't know,” Giles admitted, involuntarily hanging his head a bit, feeling rather foolish and ridiculously helpless. How could he be stupid enough to have gotten himself in this situation. For what? The bare possibility of a little sex, a little companionship? Maybe sticking to his solo act wasn't such a bad idea after all.

“You don't know where he lives but you were taking him home?” Terry all but snarled. “What, home to your place, right? You like them better when they don't move around so much, yeah? Get them in this state, you can do anything you want to them, and who knows if they even remember, that the idea?”

Giles didn't answer that. How could he without antagonizing Terry even more? “I'll deal with Twinkle Toes and wait for the wrecker,” Stern told his partner matter-of-factly. “Go ahead and get Mr. Innocent Bystander here back to the station. The guys will be glad to hear that we actually get to book him for something this time, even if it is only a misdemeanor.”

So they didn't know about the previous incident. At least not yet. That was something, Giles supposed. He, might not lose his job or his Green Card. Yes that was definitely something to hold on to.

Giles sat in the back of the squad car and ignored Terry's transparent attempts to 'make conversation' about his sex life and other after hours activities. He heard over the radio that Stern had gotten PG safely home, at least. That was all well enough. Except for the fact that his address indicated that the wanker had just moved into the same apartment complex where Giles lived.

Giles suppressed a sigh. If there was one thing he didn't need it was to finally drag himself home at the crack of dawn and meet that idiot coming out to get his morning paper. Which of course he would have ordered before leaving London.

Much to his surprise, Giles found himself involuntarily succumbing to a fit of intense giggling. Terry groused about that too, but somehow it was difficult for Giles to compose himself, even knowing what thin ice he was actually treading on. He was forced to admit that he might be a bit drunk at that. Though he was still certain he had been driving just fine.

Five humiliating hours and an ungodly sum of bail money later, Giles got home just as the sun was rising. Mercifully, he did not encounter his companion from the previous evening, thank God. He doubted that he could have seen the man without shouting at him, and no good could come of that. He liked living where he did. His apartment was comfortable, homey, and—even more importantly now that the Council had stopped paying his rent—affordable on a teacher's salary.

In any case, Giles was dead on his feet, not fit to make conversation with anyone. He was barely able to drag himself up the stairs to bed before passing out from exhaustion. After that, he didn't leave the house all weekend. He didn't see anyone besides Buffy, who tended to check in with him about once a night, though fortunately, she had given Friday a miss. At least as far as he knew.

Predictably, Monday came too soon. Giles was hardly able to sleep all weekend, for no reason he could specifically name. Or, okay, for a bout a thousand. He couldn't go on conducting he personal life this way. Sooner or later, it was going to have serious consequences for his professional life, such as it already was.

That was it, Giles resolved as he dragged himself into the library seconds before he could have been considered late. He was through picking up strange men in bars and through newspaper ads. He was just going to have to go it alone unless or until he could find himself someone capable of living in his world the way it was. Without getting killed almost immediately.

Regardless, he needed some fortification to get through the day. He had barely gotten the kettle on to make his coffee when Someone much too old to be a student and too young to be one of the parents came striding into the library like he owned the place. Giles might have thought he was a new teacher, except for the fact that no one on the faculty had died in the past couple of months.

And then he saw the man's face.

He could tell from the Proper Gentleman's own look of horror that the moment of recognition was mutual. “Good Lord,” the man gasped, almost comically. Adding, in a tone of great disdain, “you must be Rupert Giles.”

“Yes,” Giles agreed with grim irony, “I must. And who must you be?”

“Wesley Wyndom-Pryce,” the prat answered, with an absurd degree of stiff necked dignity, extending his hand. “The New Chief Field Watcher.”

Giles raised his eyebrows, and frowned grimly at his light-weight successor. This would never do. He simply had to put this person in his place before he got the idea that he was actually in charge here. Ironically assaying innocence, Giles challenged, “I'm going to need to see some proof of that.”

 


End file.
